Guild Wars: Wizard Non Grata
by monthefratellis
Summary: A forgotten relic from another age emerges into the present—on two legs. Following Zhaitan's defeat at the hands of the Pact, bounty hunter Harlan Black finds himself once again with more questions than answers. He may soon discover that the knowledge he seeks is more valuable than any bullet—deadlier, too.


The stout fellow at the stranger's back tugged at the man's coat, a wicked, black canvas that was stitched together crudely in places where the fellow imagined knives had taken it in the past. The stranger had a tricorne hat set low over his eyes, but turned around to face the man, who looked to be in his late 40's, graying hair receding.

They weren't alone, the sun sentinel in the sky, baring down on a hodgepodge of other travelers. The scene resembled a bazaar, a few merchants toting along sacks of various earthenware, assorted firearms, ripe fruit, and other, more exotic pieces. From the corner of his eye, he spied a dirty-looking man attempting to juggle three cages, each holding a rhesus monkey. All of them stood amassed on a large, stone platform suspended just over the edge of bluffs that overlooked the city's famous port. The platform itself was raised, so that they looked down on the group of travelers below them, huddled together in a holding pen, waiting for the next group's turn in the sequence.

"Why you wearing that getup, sonny? You can taste the salt in the air."

"I take it you've never traveled abroad?"

"No, not myself, but I can't imagine why you'd need a coat like that."

"It breathes well. It's balmy, even."

"You look like a pirate, sonny. We got a real problem with riff-raff over here."

"Aye," he started. "That we do."

The older man sucked his teeth for a moment, before saying "Just don't cause any trouble."

"I wouldn't think of it. You've never used an asura gate before?"

The older man shook his head.

"The portal?" He stomped his feet, catching a wavy rune on the cobblestones that the stranger knew to mean something between air and life—aether.

"Portcullis, portal, ingress, pad, gate, doorway, threshold, brink—whatever you wish to call it. Your first time with one of these?"

"I don't know how you figured, but yessir. I must have a nervous way about me. Some less-than-savory characters might mistake me for a mark."

The older man did have a look about him that the stranger had picked up on. The stranger was feeling talkative today, grateful for the conversation.

"You have my word I'll not solicit coin from you. If of your own, free will you'd like to make a donation, then that remains another matter … "

The older man laughed.

"Ah, you a church-going man?"

"Not at all. I've never been partial to the Six."

"What do you mean?"

The stranger motioned around, pointing at a dozen or so other travelers—human and otherwise—all of them now cordoned off from the rest of the line, preparing to puncture reality as though it were a lazy, afternoon chore.

"All of us here quite literally bring a thousand years' worth of custom to the table. Maybe I don't see eye-to-eye with that."

"Sonny, that's all the more reason to stand for something."

"Not easy taking a stand when ground turns beneath you."

The stranger nodded his head at the etchings in the stone, where the older man's gaze flickered along, finding runes and figures that were wholly alien to him. The stranger nudged to where a young mother stood with her child, the boy pointing at a freshly-engraved, monstrous, draconic form near the center of the plate.

"Son, that's the only time _to_ take a stand."

The stranger blinked, features softening. For a second—a flickering, transient sliver in time—he thought he might smile. A silence fell over the two, punctuated by the ocean's cool breeze. The man was right—you could taste the salt in the air.

"Dragons," the man said after a time.

"Aye."

"These are haunted times, indeed."

The stranger smiled. Just ahead, the gate technician, a look of stern authority about him, called for his assistant to fire up the ignition console that would, by the Eternal Alchemy, send the crowd from point A to B, and preferably not the nebulous un-space between the two. Functional or no, the group amassed on the platform would never reach its destination—the explosion would kill every last man, woman, child.

The stranger waved farewell to the older man as he cut through the crowd to reach the console, which came up only to his thighs. The assistant, having mottled, tan fur, carried with him a small stone object, not unlike a key. He looked nervous as he walked, visibly rattled. The stranger intercepted him, swiping the key from his hands and stuffing it into his pockets faster than the pair of them could say _thaumaturgic reactor_. The technician cried aloud, flashing rows of shark's teeth.

"Be gone! And return the contrapuntal passkey!"

The stranger considered remarking on the order of the technician's requests, but decided not to, instead diving into what he shockingly considered business-as-usual.

"I'm afraid I have to borrow your assistant, here. Unless you want him to murder all these nice folks—though I'm not particularly familiar with your customs in Rata Sum." The stranger motioned back to the crowd, who had now become aware of the commotion. The effect was instant, a wave of unease chilling them. The ones that already had reservations about the portal sprung out from the crowd, with no semblance of tact, nearly trampling a few patrons.

"This is an outrage! What proof do you have to support this baseless accusation!" The stranger looked the assistant dead in the eyes, which took up most of his face. He blinked.

"Your number's up, Corre. Don't make this any harder than it needs to be." The head technician shot Corre a look. Corre immediately looked away, the technician's eyes bulging with a pained understanding. Corre then shot his hand forward at the stranger, sending a million volts of magic his way. The stranger clocked it at the last second, but had still been tricked. The shock came to him as if he had been kicked by a horse, launching him backwards. Corre took off, headed out towards the city's main square. The stranger picked himself up moments later, more angry than injured, and bolted after him.

The stranger caught the occasional flash of the diminutive furball through the crowd as he emerged into the city's main plaza. Buildings rose around him to break his sight, ship-rigging and nautical décor splashed all over the city, making the buildings resemble galleys that had beached themselves. The plaza itself was host to a large, marble statue of a lion, the color long having been bleached off of it. The stranger did his best not to shove others out of his way, trying to catch the asura, who huffed-and-puffed his way through the crowd at a breakneck speed that belied his size. Just ahead, he grabbed the coattails of a passing norn merchant, speaking in frantic tones to him, before darting away. The merchant—burly as all norn, beard the size and consistency of a feral, drunken wildcat—turned to the stranger with challenge in his eyes. He saw the asura slip just into an alleyway, headed towards the docks. The merchant was upon him now, lunging at the stranger, taking him for the assailant. The stranger spun left so that the man crashed violently into an oxcart just behind him, shrapnel of fruit juices and pulp splaying through the air. The stranger cut after the asura.

The stranger was onto him now, as well as the city guard. He came upon a quay, fearing the asura would dive into the water. The stranger leapt, crashing down onto the wooden planks and tumbling as he did so. Just ahead of him, an armored guard emerged to block the man's passage. The asura slipped under his legs, the stranger coming up right on the guard. The guard looked to stop the stranger, so he threw his shoulder at him, making the man stumble off the platform. In his armor, he might have drowned, if the stranger hadn't knocked him into a small dinghy, where he fell sprawled onto his back, an explosion of water charging the air.

The stranger was upon the asura now, having cornered him in an alley outside the shipyard that reeked of fish and ale. The stranger produced his six-shooter in his hand, sighting the asura as he did. He was a wreck, pathetic-looking in the corner, yet still clinging to his asuran dignity as he groped for lungfuls of breath.

"I wouldn't move if I were you."

"Drop it!" the stranger caught from behind him, a squad of the city's finest pirates ever to wear the badge—the Lionguard—having come up on him from behind. Two of them held sabers, but the other two held economy rifles. All were armored. The stranger smiled, the gun not lowering a hair.

"I've some business to attend if you don't mind."

"You can sort this out down at the bullpen."

"I'm going to reach my hand into my pockets and pull out a fistfull of official documents. If I may offer some advice, it'd be wise to lower your weapons." One of the guards, the youngest, opened his mouth to say something as the stranger wormed his hand into his jacket. He kept his eyes on the asura as he did so, and when he found the letter he sought, he handed it backwards without looking. The guard snatched it, the stranger catching him as he read it sotto voce. The voice stopped, him knowing that he had come upon the official seal.

"_Harlan Black_. You're a bounty hunter."

"Aye, sometimes. This time being one of those 'some' times."

"What business do you have with this man?"

"I can't get into specifics, but I assure you, it's on-the-level. You saw the official seal, right?"

"Yes."

"Then, not to be rude, I'd like some privacy. Oh, and by the way, that armor does you no good down in these docks. One of your boys almost drowned."

The group's leader—an imposing charr—grumbled something, handing the letter back to Harlan, doing his best not to ruin the paper with his claws. Harlan pocketed it carefully as the squad left. He turned to face the day's catch.

"I didn't appreciate that zap, you know."

The asura, whose breathing had returned to normal, glowered at Harlan, as if to immolate him with his thoughts.

"Ask me how I knew what you were up to."

The asura, in a decorous gesture, straightened himself, opening his mouth to enunciate his thoughts with absolute precision. Harlan cut him off.

"Glonn!"

The diminutive creature's face flushed, as he shrieked.

"That wretched lout! That swindling, scamming, subhuman sot!"

"You're only mostly correct. His betrayal stemmed entirely from the drink, rather than greed or cowardice."

The stranger fished around inside his coat, producing a set of fun-sized handcuffs, which he flung out towards the asura. They clattered at his feet. The asura balked in disgust.

"Surely, you can't be serious."

"I am serious," Harlan said.

After a minute, he added "and don't call me '_Shirley_.' "

—

"What I don't get," Harlan started. His prisoner, Corre, the asuran saboteur, sniped at him.

"Basic arithmetic?" Harlan gave the asura a swift kick in the ass, spurring him along the streets of Lion Arch's western quarter. He yelped, Harlan picking up where he had left off.

"—is what was your endgame was in that business. What's the profit in sending half a man to Rata Sum, and the other half clean to Cantha?"

The asura grumbled to himself. Harlan pointed just ahead to a brick-and-mortar, vanilla two-story, a rare sight in Lion's Arch, the setting sun catching his eye.

"Though, far be it from me to question the Inquest's methods."

Harlan accompanied the asura to the thick, oak door, that held a ship's escutcheon above it that read "O'Malley's." He opened the door in one of his more chivalrous gestures. The pair stepped inside, greeted by candlelight that bathed the room in soft color, showing that the tavern was bereft of patrons. Harlan lifted up the asura and set him on top of the bar counter, where he kicked and screamed.

"I am Tyria's premiere authority on asura gates! I demand you set me down at once!"

"Hush now," Harlan said, as if to quiet a child.

"I swear by the Alchemy I shall strangle you in your sleep! Even the Mists offer you no shelter to flee my recompense!"

"_Sure you will_. Now, who's a good, little genius?"

The asura blinked.

"I am!"

"That's right. Now, tell me who put you up to it."

"No one! I am a genius! My machinations are my own!"

"Really? A genius of your caliber is going to take the fall for someone else? I suppose I've misjudged your acumen as a black hat."

Corre shuffled nervously, looked to say something when the two men burst in through the door.

The outlaws, both of their faces hidden under bandanas, gripped pistols trained on Harlan. The first man, pale and shifty, roared at him.

"I want everything in your pockets! Give us the asura, too!"

The second assailant added "Yeah!" after a beat, as if this were a profound truth gifted from the mouth of Kormir. Corre's face grew wild. Harlan angled himself between the men and Corre, thinking that if the asura rewarded the gesture with lightning, he was going to turn him into a very intelligent, very tasty rabbit stew.

"Whatever do you want him for?" Harlan began, straddling the line between sing-song and earnestness.

"Somebody'll pay good money for him! Give us everything!"

"What about O'Malley?" Harlan asked. "Him, too?"

Harlan cast his eyes over to an alcove in the corner of the room, where shadows clung in thick vines. For the briefest of instants, the men followed his gaze, transfixed. When the men's eyes met him again, Harlan gripped twin revolvers in his hands. Harlan watched as their faces contorted in shock, a rhapsody of gunfire flooding the room.

The men crumpled on the ground before him, both of them winged in the shoulders. Harlan stepped carefully over to the pair, kicking the men's guns away, where they clattered into a bar stool. Corre had disappeared behind the bar counter, Harlan figuring he wouldn't cause too much trouble over the next minute. Harlan ripped the bandanas from them, and stood over the pale man, revolver hanging in the air to add gravitas to his words as only a gun could.

"What does the Order of Whispers want with this asura?"

The pale assailant scoffed nervously, searching for some beautiful lie. Harlan stepped on his arm, grinding the heel of his boot into the wound. The man shrieked. Harlan shot a look at the second man, daring him to try something, almost apologetically.

"I know the Order's not acclimatized to anything other than espionage and political posturing, but humor me. Be _honest_." The word entered the men's ears like a muculent sea-worm, bodies contorting in reflexive disgust.

"W-we were ordered to snatch him up!" The second man hissed at his loose-lipped companion, Harlan kicking him in the flank so as to keep the pale man's words flowing freely like water. Otherwise, Harlan's solution to a clogged pipe would have been the liberal application of a wrench—charr make.

"Who did the orders come from?"

Silence. Harlan fired his gun backwards, where the bullet caught the liquor bottle Corre was poised to strike him with. The bottle shattered at once, the drenched asura falling behind the counter again. The shot had the effect of making the man more talkative.

"Lightbringer Vhinn!"

"What's Vhinn's angle?"

"I swear, I don't know!"

"Then you're of no use to me. I'll just tell the Lionguard I shot a couple of robbers."

Harlan cocked the hammer, a chill running through the spines of both men, and into Harlan via his boot.

"Wait, wait! She told us to find him and—" the pale man swallowed hard. "_Finish him off_."

Fury gripped Harlan's features. The men looked away, fearful of his gaze. From behind the bar, a voice squeaked.

"_Kill me_?! She was going to kill _me_?!"

Harlan released his foot from the man's arm, which may as well have had the weight of a dolyak. He glared at them for a moment, his eyes smoldering with a slow, wan flame that burned within him for as long as he could remember. The pair took the hint, scrambling onto their feet and making for the door. He let his gun hang at his side as the men left. Just before they exited, he added "Message for you. Tell your higher-ups if they try this again in my city, next time, it's gonna be their blood staining the floor."

The agents left, retreating into the shadows left in the wake of the sun.

Harlan scooped up the men's guns where they had been flung and set them on a table. He then went to the bar and pulled Corre up from behind it via the scruff of his neck. Corre didn't seem to notice, visibly shaken by the experience, far away in his thoughts. Lugo, clad in his butcher's apron, entered the room from upstairs, battered lever-action rifle in hand.

"I was afraid I'd have to get my hands dirty. And that was an awfully big threat to an awfully big rat's nest of killers and spies. Sure you can back it up?"

"Alone? Probably not. But with you and that relic in your hands?" Harlan flashed a smile that was becoming increasingly rare—a red iris flower in the heart of the Crystal Desert. "Well, _still_, probably not." Lugo shot him a mock scowl, depositing the firearm on the nearest table. "As you can see, I have the bounty in tow. Coin is fine."

Lugo walked behind the bar, navigating over the shattered glass, spilt spirits, and blood, Harlan casting him a look as if to say _sorry_. He produced one mithril lockbox from under the counter. He set about the combination lock, popping it open. Harlan restrained himself from taking a peek at the box's contents. Lugo's hand returned with a brown sack of coin, which Harlan took and pocketed. Corre spoke incredulously after a moment.

"I can't believe that wretch was going to murder me."

"_Everyone_ was out to kill you."

Harlan took the key device from his pocket and held it against the candlelight.

"See this? The resulting explosion would've taken out everything for half a mile. Your Inquest buddies lied to you."

Corre set his eyes on the hardwood floor. He stammered for a moment, his genius and the weight of his mortality locked in violent embrace, each wounding the other, each struggling for the killing blow. Corre fell silent after a moment, Harlan guessing the victor.

"So, tell me. Is this Lightbringer Vhinn on the take? Is she running with the Inquest?"

Corre looked at Harlan without raising his head, confirming his suspicions. It was then the man called out from the top of the stairs.

"You're wrong, actually." The man creaked down the stairs, the candlelight revealing him as one reveals a statue from behind a curtain.

The man looked a little older than Harlan, somewhere in his 30's, with a crop of neatly parted, black hair. He had an odd way about him, suggesting a kind of schism formed between boundless confidence and the skill to back it up. He was dressed similarly to Harlan, recalling lines of work that the two of them may have had in common. He wore a jacket the color of bark, underneath it a cotton shirt, the top of which covered by a scarlet shawl that looked to have some age to it. "About the key, I mean. The Inquest mistakenly wrote it off as a bomb."

"And you are …?"

Lugo stepped out from behind the bar, sheepish.

"I'm sorry, this gentleman approached me, earlier. He's a Mr. …"

"Roy," the man said after a moment. Harlan watched his eyes traipse over the guns that had been placed on the table.

"That's well and all, but I'm not getting involved in anything extralegal."

"I'm merely here to voice my grievances against the Order of Whispers. I have the idea in my head you don't much care for them, either."

"What could've put that notion in your head?"

"I'll be as direct as possible: I aim to put a stop to this business with the Order, even if it means turning over every rock from here to the Shiverpeaks."

"A man after my own heart. Still, the answer's no."

"You haven't heard my offer."

"And I don't intend to. My coin says you're mixed up with the asura."

Roy pointed to Corre.

"Hey, genius! Have you ever had the pleasure of meeting yours truly?"

Corre glared sullenly, before answering "I have never met this bookah before."

"See, there you have it! Straight from the shark's mouth!"

"I have my coin. Lugo, see to it Corre finds himself in Seraph custody." Roy spoke up, pointing to the device.

"Fair enough. Return my key to me and we'll part amicably."

Harlan turned the key in his hands, the light playing along the grooves that snaked around the obelisk.

"Sorry. File an injunction at your local Seraph branch. Closed on weekends, I'm afraid."

Harlan palmed the key, stuffing it in the back of his jacket. Roy approached the bar.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Still. I can't leave empty-handed." Roy walked himself within inches of the asura, stooping down so that the two were eye level. "Where is the Order based out of?"

The asura didn't look away, didn't hesitate. He seemed sobered, his near-death experience washing away the metaphorical drunkenness of his recent, poor decisions.

"I don't know," he said plainly, truthfully. Harlan wondered in that moment if he had ever known an asura to use a contraction. Harlan decided this frightened him. Hell, the day must have really gotten to him. But, the asura was telling the truth. He was sure of that.

Roy stepped away, disappointed. Lugo chimed in.

"You intend to find them where they nest?"

"I do."

Harlan sighed. He opened his mouth, and like most of his life's decisions, regretted it immediately.

"I know where the scoundrels hole up. They think themselves unseen in the sewers as they plot and scheme."

"One wonders how you know that." Roy's brow raised in an exaggerated, thespian manner Harlan associated with disorders of the personality histrionic in nature.

"I can't stomach them. I served alongside them in the Pact, yes, but I never feigned trust. This Vhinn—a lightbringer, no less—seems to be the knot binding these ropes together. I guess it's lucky I had my eye on the group's movements."

Harlan excused himself, making his way to behind the bar. He ducked low, then returned with a bottle of _Serendipity_ sour mash he felt was apropos. He held a single glass in his hand.

"What are you doing?" Roy posed after a moment.

"If I'm meant to take a bat to this shit piñata," Harlan began, rattling the whiskey bottle, "I may as well blindfold myself and _play ball_."

Roy pulled up a chair to the counter, laughing.

"Make it a double."


End file.
